


Yoga to take your chances with me

by ThePiningTrees



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Broody Derek Hale, Christmas fic, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Minor Angst, Misunderstandings, Secret Santa, Slow Burn, Sterek Secret Santa 2019, Yoga instructor Derek, fluff tropes, mention of dead family members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePiningTrees/pseuds/ThePiningTrees
Summary: There is a twink formerly known as Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski standing outside the yoga studio, making Derek’s life miserable. Stiles would argue (if he got the chance to) that he’s technically already inside the studio, and he’s making Derek’s afternoon miserable, ‘because perspective, Derek. That’s your whole shtick, isn’t it?’. He can practically hear Stiles argue in his head. Some days Stiles’s voice drifts in and out of his stream of consciousness like an ocean tide - there to offer a running commentary on Derek’s goings.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 170
Collections: The Sterek Secret Santa Collection





	Yoga to take your chances with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewarethesmirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/gifts).



> I didn’t write a coffee shop AU, but I hope you will enjoy a broody Derek teaching yoga, featuring a feud over a quilt…?  
> Also, my thanks to Leetje who arranged this awesome gift exchange.

There is a twink formerly known as Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski standing outside the yoga studio, making Derek’s life miserable. Stiles would argue (if he got the chance to) that he’s technically already _inside_ the studio, and he’s making Derek’s _afternoon_ miserable, ‘because perspective, Derek. That’s your whole shtick, isn’t it?’. He can practically _hear_ Stiles argue in his head. Some days Stiles’s voice drifts in and out of his stream of consciousness like an ocean tide - there to offer a running commentary on Derek’s goings. 

Maybe it’s his brain preparing him for what is bound to happen if he lets Stiles through the door; reminding him sternly that it’s a bad idea. He’s ten minutes into a class, not the best circumstances for removing Stiles from the premises. He hopefully glances over at Boyd, whom he knows from the regular gym and considers a friend. Derek raises his brows asking (30% rhetorically, 70% pleadingly… and 0.01% desperately) ‘Should you or shall I?’. 

Boyd looks back with a serene smug ’Nah, you’re on your own on this one’. 

Derek returns his glare to Stiles, who’s leaning against the glass partition that separates the lobby from the training area. A glass partition which Stiles now presses his obtuse face to, mashing it against the flat surface. Not for the first time post the Stilinski infestation Derek reminds himself that he teaches anti-violence for a living. If his clients ever got access to a running transcript of his inner monologue he’ll be committed, but he doesn’t see that as a legitimate reason as to not vividly fantasize about running Stiles’s head through the glass. 

Derek takes in the eighteen students in his beginners’ class, a rag-tag group of Beacon Hills residents ages 18 to 75, varying from seasoned athletes to those who barely made it through gym class in school. They’d surely vote in favor for Derek packaging Stiles up and FedEx him to his home address. 

He wisely decides to ignore Stiles for the time being (he knows why he’s banned) and picks up the instructions where he left off: 

“When you follow your in-breath, you are able to use the awareness of your current breath to anchor yourself in your body; in this present moment. Notice the pause where the breath turns… and breathe out slowly. Good.” 

His voice is low and assuring. He likes to teach the beginners class the most. Prefers it over the intermediate class, because he does a lot of slow-pace guiding and abandons most of the technical talk; not pushing any physical or mental limits the participants aren’t ready to face. 

Stiles leans both his palms against the glass – smearing it with his palms – his eyes sweat-blinking with indignation, as if he’s trying to laser-carve the words _I’m_ _offended_ on Derek’s forehead. 

“Now, we are going to check in with your posture. The next time you inhale, follow your in-breath up, through your neck, and breath out through the top of the head. As you breathe in, straighten your back to assume a posture of” – Stiles’s hands slips down the glass with a protracted squeal – “dignity.” 

“Who’s that?” The complaint comes from Victoria, a middle-aged woman who carries herself like a drill sergeant. 

“Remember,” Derek re-directs, “use any potential distractions as opportunities to actively choose where you direct your attention. Back to your breath.” 

Victoria’s daughter, who occupies the mat to her left, lets out an amused snort – she’s the most diligent and attentive student in his class. Allison looks to him now as if she’s waiting for him to make the next move, and Derek knows he’s been out-voted. Damn it. 

Stiles flinches when Derek reaches the lobby. 

”You’re banned,” Derek states calmly. He’s aware that he’s had this exact conversation a thousand times before. 

“THAT” – Stiles points accusatory to the note Derek has attached in the center of the partition. The note where he’s scribbled _Stiles, you are banned. Go_ _home –_ “is a particularly shitty way of announcing it.” 

“You have repeatedly broken the membership guidelines, for months. You’ve wounded half of my clientele by now,” he hyperboles just to see Stiles’s eyes comically widen. “A truer false statement has never been spoken.” 

Stiles splutters. “What, I’ve barely—“ 

“Isaac; two nosebleeds and a black eye.” Derek counts off his fingers. “Erica; elbowed twice, one busted lip. An average of seven complaints from costumers who you’ve intimately prodded with your foot without noticing. Mrs. Argent gave me five ultimatums about you per month. You need me to continue – or do you need them to tell you?” He indicates the audience they are attracting behind the glass. “If you wanted to be here so badly you shouldn’t have repeatedly disrupted my classes.” 

Stiles draws an angry, shuddering breath. “You were supposed to teach me how to yoga, so technically my failure is your failure.“ 

“I can’t teach you ‘how to yoga’, I don’t think no one can.” 

”Oh ha hah, Yoga Mulaney, everybody!” Stiles laughs cruelly. “Too bad insults don’t exclude my right to defend myself in the court of law.” 

”There’s not a lawyer in the country that would touch your case.” 

There’s a hint of amusement breaking through Stiles’s exaggerated fury. “So you’re really not going to let me in? What if I—“ 

He makes a half-assed attempt to run past, but Derek is faster – all it takes is a firm hand on Stiles’s chest. 

There’s a beat, where Stiles’s just gaping and processing the betrayal, looking between Derek’s face and his hand before boiling over. ”BUT IT’S CHRISTMAS!” 

Derek tells himself not to laugh. “That’s not an acceptable defense speech. I have to get back to my class. You should leave.” _Or hang back here so I can talk to you._

”I don’t think… you’ve never been mad over that stuff before.” The crease in Stiles’s forehead deepens in suspicion. “Wait. _That’s_ what it is? You’re mad that I stole your pillow, because I… yeah, you know what? I’m keeping that, and I still have beef with you about the quilt.” He fold his arms. 

“You have beef about the quilt,” Derek repeats flatly. That’s about the most discouraging thing Stiles can say to him, but he supposes he can force himself to understand Stiles’s motivation. 

“Uhm, yeah. If I’m banned for life, I’m not walking out of here empty-handed.” Stiles slides his hands inside his pockets; steps back. It’s a retreat, and they both now his absence will be permanent. 

“How about I give you the quilt after you apologize like an actual adult.” Derek looks, really looks at him to convey that he’s still here if Stiles decides he feels the same thing, but Stiles’s gaze is alive with indignation and flickering uncertainly to the rest of the class. And the note stuck to the glass. “ _You_ apologize first, asshole. I’m the wounded party here.” 

“In that case,” Derek says tersely, and stomps back to take his place in front of the class to teach some goddamn peace of mind. 

_A few months_ _ago_ _…_

The first time Stiles shows up in Hale’s yoga studio he’s nervously hovering on the threshold, looking like he’s about to rob the place with a lacrosse-stick. Derek steps around the reception desk. 

“First time?” he asks civilly. 

”Huh?” 

”Yoga?” Derek’s eyes do a tour around the facilities in case Stiles wasn’t aware of his location. ”Are you here to sign up for the beginners class?” 

Stiles squints at a spot on the wall for ten seconds straight, grimacing like it physically hurts to come up with an answer. His face is weirdly hypnotizing, holding Derek’s attention in the meantime. ”I could be? I mean, I never saw myself doing that stuff, y’know. But here we are?” 

Okay... Derek decides to go forward with the standard questions. “Do you have any injuries I should be aware off? Do you work out regularly? Any sports?” 

“Nah. Lacrosse, in high school, now not so much. My best friend is an assistant teacher so we use the facilities sometimes for old times sake.” 

“You’re in college?” 

“I come home when I can. Have some peace and quiet.” He flexes his long fingers, joints popping, and grins cheekily when Derek frowns, “I really should dilute my Internet addiction with some physical exercise. A bit of Zen.” 

His words make less of a sense but he’s also cute. 

“You’ll need a mat and a few other things.” Derek leads his new client to the supply closet and hands them to Stiles, one by one. “First class is free, and starts in five. Can you do that?” 

Stiles nod quickly, and grapples his mat-roll. “Totally.” 

Turns out Stiles, occasional Lacrosse enthusiast, might have the muscle strength to hold his body in the asanas Derek guides the class through, but doesn’t have the flexibility or range of motion to survive even the beginners class without losing balance and dealing out blows with his flailing limbs. 

By the end of it Stiles is left crying into his yoga mat in the child’s pose, cradling his waist, and getting mocked by Erica. 

Here’s the kicker though: Stiles comes back a week later, and then on Thursday in Derek’s advanced class. It’s a disaster. Yet another accidental bitch-slap when Stiles loses his balance and domino-tumbles over Isaac Lahey who happens to be innocently reaching Nirvana behind him. 

On Friday morning (does he even go to college?) he shows up to inexplicably join Derek’s yoga class for women on maternity leave and their babies. 

“Yo, you said it would be much more chill,” Stiles accuses from the floor, where he’s languidly patting a small infant on her back. 

Derek halts by his mat, “I meant the Kundalini, which was the class an hour before this one.” 

It’s a challenge to sound admonishing when there’s a fuzzy baby head snoozing right under Stiles’s chin. He looks like he’s secretly terrified that the baby will slip down his chest like a slippery bar of soap if he sneezes. Derek wonders if he should offer Stiles a bean-bag to care for once the mother returns from the bathroom. It looks like an effective way to keep Stiles in check. Or, Derek hopefully looks around, is someone else willing to donate their child? Throwing human infants at Stiles unfortunately sounds like an emergency solution, though. 

Stiles keeps showing up and he keeps going at it – teeth gritted, relentless, and occasionally guffawing so loud it disrupts Derek’s instructive monologues. Derek finds himself tracking Stiles’s progress. His non-linear progress, but progress nonetheless. Stiles sneaks into an intermediate class and when Derek looks over Stiles is in his sweats, standing in the advanced warrior pose. Stiles is ‘surfing’ his mat, as he likes to refer to it. He has the body of an athlete, long-limbed and by November he’s way more limber than before. His torso stretches gracefully when he cants his hips and reaches for the ceiling. By Derek’s instruction he applies pressure on his heel to further stretch his hip flexor; arches his back instead of staying in the safe position and slips his left hand around his waist to rest on his right inner thigh - a sight which Derek has a quiet aneurysm over – before Stiles promptly falls over like a cardboard cut-out of himself caught in a breeze, socking Isaac in the eye as they both go down. Derek laughs – the one time he failed to laugh internally, like a professional. 

He can’t help but look forward to the times when Stiles lingers after class. Mostly recovering on the floor while Derek tidies up. 

“Can you chalk like, around me while I lay here?” Stiles circle-motions his hand. “We can play CSI! I’ll be the victim. You’ll be the coroner.” He piano-taps at his sternum with two fingers. 

“Tempting,” Derek says, causing Stiles to look up with hope written across his face, “But I would probably just step over you if I found you dead in the street.” 

“That’s cold.” Stiles scratches his throat. It’s distracting how he’s always doing something off-beat with his hands, the motions catching Derek’s attention and holding it hostage. 

“Hey, do you know this used to be a dance studio?” Stiles asks. 

“Speaking of nothing. I think there was one before the building was closed for renovation. How do you know it was a dance studio?” 

Stiles leisurely points to the nearest wall. He’s tired. “You haven’t noticed there’s still barres over there? And there, and there, and there.” 

Of course Derek has noticed the handrails lining the walls in the loft. “I didn’t think _you_ noticed them. Except for using them as a towel rack.” 

Although he suspects Stiles takes notice of a lot of things. 

Derek averts his eyes when Stiles yawns and scratches under his shirt. Stiles‘s gaze jumps to the spiral staircase. “So, what’s up there? Your office? Can I have a tour?” 

For a moment Derek thoughts screech to a halt. The space up there is where he sleeps; it’s the equivalent of a small studio apartment. To have Stiles up there, walking around and touching his things, no, that would feel too much like a date. And Stiles isn’t flirting – he’s asking questions. 

“I live up there,” he admits, unsure if it’s personal information he should share. “No, you’re not ever allowed up there, ever.” 

“Not ever, ever? Don’t flatter yourself, Hale. As if I have the energy for stairs,” Stiles mutters glumly. 

They keep having these little chats, and Derek actually enjoys them – he’s relieved that there’s at least one person in Beacon Hills he can talk nonsense with without feeling like _Derek Hale, the guy who burn_ _ed_ _down his parents’ house with the parents_ _still_ _in it_. That’s the neat summary of what Derek reads in people’s faces every time he’s in a store and notice how he’s being rubbernecked by the residents of Beacon Hills. It’s a small town, and he should’ve known what to expect when he moved back. 

One evening Derek find himself re-telling his own first time in a yoga class as an eighteen year old, how he had been dragged inside by the neck by his sister Laura, who hissed at him to _relax!_ He’s secretly proud of her efforts to bring him back to life by dragging him to yoga retreats and encouraging him to take instructor courses. When she left New York for Europe he decided to check out the town where they grew up, and open up a yoga studio of his own. 

“So, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Stiles asks, lounging in the sofa in Derek’s studio. 

Derek raises his head, realizing he’s got _four_ stragglers now: Stiles, Boyd, Isaac and Erica, who all refuses to leave at an appropriate hour and leave bags of chips in the corners. The loft is _not_ a YMCA and he will _not_ tolerate Isaac and Erica dragging in chairs from the lobby, or Boyd installing a fridge behind the counter. He doesn’t voice his concerns, instead noticing how unusually subdued they are in the aftermath of the other participants chatting amicably about Christmas plays, family dinners and finding that perfect last minute gift. 

Boyd shrugs. “I will do what I always do. Spend Christmas at my parents’ house.” He sounds far from happy about the fact. 

Isaac squirms, and it’s unlikely he has plans for Christmas. Derek knows a bit, well, enough to suspect that Isaac doesn’t have family to visit. 

“I’ll be here,” Derek answers curtly, with enough finality for the topic to be dropped. 

Stiles lets the melancholy prevail for almost thirty seconds. 

“We should decorate this place with garlands and stuff.” 

“No.” 

“Yes!” Stiles grins. 

Derek rolls his eyes in exasperation. “I swear I’ll throw a baby at you.” 

“Dude,” Stiles says. “That makes no sense.” 

** 

Here’s the thing. Stiles can’t help himself, but he notices stuff about Derek and suddenly he’s addicted. Or crushing. Crushing hard. 

He notices how Derek care individually for the other stragglers: Boyd, Isaac and Erica. Initially they are fiercely loyal, instinctively on Derek’s side after the chips incident (so he opened a bag of chips in class, big deal, it was boring and he had the munchies) (so he choked on a mouthful when Derek told him off big deal) (so he suffered through a coughing fit for twenty minutes straight which happened to also be the duration of Derek’s guided meditation). 

But they dislike Stiles only for like two seconds, and then they fake-dislike him and deep down they love him, he’s sure. They start to bring snacks to the studio, which lead to a lot of grumbling and extra triple compulsive late night-vacuuming of the floor for Derek. Stiles stays late to help, saint that he is. 

But, Stiles also notices, Derek never tells them to stop hanging around. Okay, he never _stop_ asking them to leave, but he doesn’t force them to, and he’s getting softer. There lies a important distinction. 

Furthermore. Stiles is objectively and subjectively finding Derek attractive. Yes. Have you _seen_ Derek in black compression shorts flexing his hamstrings? Stiles has. Stiles has been guilty of peering through the glass when Derek has private sessions, where he and some other superman or -woman balance on their forearms and head. He has seen Derek’s death-defying acrobatics where he touches the soles of his feet together while in the headstand. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days he caught Derek levitating under the ceiling like a freaking bat. 

Stiles also knows Derek always wears baggy basketball shorts over his compression ones to all his regular classes, overly concerned about not flashing his junk when he lifts his legs, and the man _hates_ attention. Stiles knows by the stiff way Derek holds himself when he’s walking around before and after class that he much rather be handing out advice from a Skype call. Derek is secretly an introvert, but alone with Stiles? He’s relaxed, funny, and Stiles is addicted to his cynicism. 

There’s a lump in Stiles’s throat when he finally decides to be done with the bullshit and finally tell Derek why he showed up that very first day. Rip off the truth-bandage. 

Stiles drives back to Beacon Hills on a Thursday and makes sure he is the last man standing (laying down, star-fishing the floor, lamenting) after the end of the evening class. Derek is hovering over him with a soft expression (accentuated by the warm light from the still burning candles), and Stiles feels warm and buzzing with anticipation and nerves. 

“Why are you still here?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Stiles sits up, gingerly when his wrung-out muscles protests, panics, and starts to ramble the thing he wasn’t suppose to reveal until he’d said the other thing. “I want… I want to ask you out, on a date. Because I think you are funny, and admirable, and hot when you’re holding babies and vacuuming, but also – your ass is fine, but that’s not... I neglect my studies and go home every opportunity I get just for the chance to see you.” 

It’s not at all what he was planning to begin with. More like the last thing, the concluding remark. He stares at Derek, pulse rushing, caught between telling Derek the truth and shut up and just, just— 

Derek kneels down in front of him, very, very close, and Stiles freezes in place. Derek nods, “Do you… want to come upstairs so we can talk about this?” 

Stiles agrees with a foggy notion that that will give him enough time to explain why that won’t be the first time he’s been up there. 

** 

Derek throws caution the wind here and grabs Stiles’s hand. He leads the way up the winding staircase, mentally wondering if Stiles’s impression of him will shift when he sees where Derek lives. He doesn’t require much after five years on the east coast and three years in Beacon Hills. Shitty apartments have been a constant in his life ever since he left the first time, but this one he genuinely likes. 

Stiles stares at the handmade quilt he’s got covering the bed, at the grotesque but matching throw pillows on the floor by the window where Derek occasionally reads or meditates, then back to the bed and the photos on the shelf above. Derek’s earthly possessions are scarce since the fire that burned down his home, and the framed photos are donated from friends of the family. There’s the graduation picture of Laura, arm confidently slung across Derek’s shoulder, and a picture of all the kids sitting on the hood of their parents’ car back when they went on a vacation to lake Michigan. 

The rest of the stuff in Derek’s place can be sum up by a dead plant, a floor-fan covered in dust, and the mentioned quilt and pillows which Derek found in the cabinet when he moved in. 

Stiles draws a shuddering breath and touches the quilt almost reverently. And is he... _is he_ _sniffing back tears_ _?_ Fuck, Derek wouldn’t have brought Stiles up here knowing his apartment was such a downer… 

Stiles starts to forcefully pull the quilt from the bed. There’s definitely a piece of vital information Derek’s missing here. “Stiles… What exactly are you doing?” 

Stiles’s picks up the pillows from the floor too. He gathers them protectively against his chest, the quilt spilling over in his arms. “Fuck my life. Fuck my life, man. I should go.” 

Derek craves a few more words of explanation, but Stiles is already stalking back to the stairs. “Is there a reason you’re stealing my bedspread?” 

“I know, I know, I’m a horrible person. I’ll reimburse you,” Stiles yells, half-way down the staircase already. A beat later there’s a loud, metallic resonance from his collision with the railing, and a crash. 

Stiles is sitting on the floor when Derek rushes downstairs, legs entangled. Derek gently removes the hand Stiles presses to his left temple, inspecting the damage. 

Stiles groans. “Okay, fine, you might as well know before this building kills me. I never planned to come to your classes, alright. You asked what I was doing here and I didn’t know what to say. I want to remember my dead mom? You asked me if I wanted to sign up, so I just went with it.” He picks guiltily at the frays of the quilt. “My mom made these, so people could use them when this was her dance studio. I used to nap under this blanket, up there in her office, when I wasn’t crashing her classes. From what I remember she really loved this place.” 

“I had no idea.” Derek wants to gather Stiles in his arms, to wrap him up in the quilt burrito style and get him upstairs and patch the gash in his head – but Stiles retreats. The quilt pools to the floor between them when he rises to his feet. 

“I should go. I just…” He waves tiredly at the offending quilt, “I’m sorry, I panicked.” 

“Take it. It’s yours, not mine,” Derek states. “Do you want to use my bathroom? I’ve got a first aid kit.” 

Stiles shakes his head, bites his lips thoughtfully. “Not, not a good idea. I have to go home. Talk to my dad. I—” he swallows hard. ”Sorry I tricked you.”

Derek nods mechanically, a horrible feeling gripping his stomach like a squeezing fist. _Sorry I tricked you?_ How did he not see this coming? Was Derek the most gullable, naive idiot on the planet or is Stiles just that good at long cons?   
Stiles was so amicable with the information-oversharing. Yet Stiles kept the fact that this was his mother’s dance studio for three months. His thoughts goes to the image of how Stiles was looking at him that very first day in the lobby. The expression on his face which Derek finally can identify correctly: bafflement. Stiles was here to get a glimpse of his mom’s former practice, nothing else. 

Stiles doesn’t come back the day after. Or the day after that. He’s a no show for two weeks straight, and the semester is ending on Friday. Erica kind of hints she has Stiles’s number, but Derek’s convinced Stiles wouldn’t appreciate Derek bothering him. The realization that Stiles up and left the second he got what he wanted (closure?) is tough to swallow. The bitter taste is still there when Stiles shows up to the last class late December, and sees the note Derek has stuck on the wall. 

Stiles blowing up and Derek being defensive, all in front of an audience, is not how Derek thought the reunion with Stiles would go. 

** 

Derek spends the weekend before Christmas running new tracks in the woods north of town. When the morning of December 25th arrives he brews coffee and drinks it sitting cross legged in his bed in a sliver of pale sunlight, facing the shelf. 

“Merry Christmas.” He drinks from his cup. 

He calls Laura and they talk for a while, then tries to meditate but the head-space he’s in resumes the quality of _empty_ and _alone_ when he listens to the silence in the loft below. Derek wonders if he should feel angry. He is finally out of fucks to give, except maybe when it comes to his yoga studio. At least he has— 

A rattle downstairs brings him abruptly out of his thoughts. 

The distinctive sound of patting feet crossing the floor of the studio. Several feet. 

When Derek descends the staircase he’s dumb-struck by the sight of Boyd, who should be celebrating Christmas with his parents; Isaac, who Derek should’ve given an extra thought to; Erica, whose family life Derek doesn’t know that much about, and three others whose presence he has no idea how to reconcile with: Allison, a dark-haired boy holding her hand, and Stiles. 

Derek descends the last two steps in Stiles direction before he thinks better of it, looking around and feeling caught in the spotlight. 

“What are you doing here?” 

”Do you honestly think I want to spend the holidays stuck at my parents’ house?” Boyd wonders. 

Derek doesn’t know how to answer that, except he does, in his mind: _Of course_ _you would._

Boyd gives a short and dismissive head-shake. “Not so much. I doubt they’ve noticed I’m not in my room, and their idea of Christmas is too close to a wake for my liking. We were hoping we could spend it with you. Use the kitchen Stiles tells me you got up there.” 

Derek nods an affirmative, and that’s enough for the confident smile to return to Boyd’s features – and okay, now they’re hugging. 

It sets of a chain reaction. Isaac hugs him. Erica hugs him. It’s awkward, it’s weird as heck, but he humors them, even Allison’s boyfriend who gives him a bright “Hey” and an energetic shoulder-pat before he’s pulled back by Allison and stumbles over the huge net filled with volleyballs he’s holding (Allison’s boyfriend is an assistant gym teacher and also Stiles’s best buddy). 

Allison hugs him and kisses his cheek: “My mom wishes you happy holidays. You know she would never say it in person.” 

Derek will process this at a later date because Stiles is in his line of vision, with a sheepish look and a blush that deepens when Derek pulls him in instinctively. Derek lets go of Stiles after the first squeeze and light pressure of Stiles going lax against his chest. Stiles grins wryly and bounces his fist on Derek’s shoulder awkwardly, and it’s stated then: Stiles is back at pretending his feelings confession never happened. Derek thinks he’s conveying understanding – it’s okay, he’s happy they’re friends. 

The day transpires a lot more cheerily after that – different than any other Christmases Derek has had, counting the ones in his childhood. Because the Hales never spent Christmas decorating a condemned loft turned yoga studio with garlands and candles, cooked an entire Christmas dinner in a tiny kitchen or by the way, used said Christmas decorated yoga studio to play dodgeball. 

The dodgeball tournament turns out to be the bloodbath Derek’s yoga studio has been accustomed to lately. They have revolving team members and re-evolving teams due to small numbers, disloyalty within the ranks and frequent injuries: some sprained wrists, several head traumas, and a groin-hit that requires a long convalesce for Stiles, in fetus position on Derek’s bed upstairs. 

They let him rest, but after twenty minutes Derek gets antsy and heads up the stairs. 

“Are you cold?” he asks, holding the folded quilt in his hands. 

Stiles looks wary and hopeful when Derek drapes it over his body, tugs his feet in and then – by the grip Stiles suddenly has of his shirt-chest – Derek lays down on the mattress so that they are face to face. 

“I’m sorry I ran. I’m a coward who’s never asked someone out before.” 

“You’re not. You came back. That—” _I have no idea what that means,_ “—means a lot. I’m sorry for banning you.” 

Stiles carefully grips his hand. 

“The note was the most childish thing I’ve seen you do – I think I’m rubbing off on you. Message received, though.” 

Derek looks at their interwoven fingers. “Can you explain to me again why you invade my privacy with Christmas cheer?” 

Stiles grins. “I had no choice. I would’ve come either way, but then I thought why sneak in like a criminal when I can do it in style? Your friends were more or less hanging on the lock already.” 

“They’re not my friends,” Derek says, but the jolt he feels in his chest suggests otherwise. 

“Then do you still want me to leave?” 

Stiles looks at him, hopeful, and eagerly licks his lips. Derek reaches out to wipe sweat-crusted hair from his forehead, carefully minding the bruise he’s sporting. Stiles pulls him closer by the wrist, and they kiss, almost shyly. 

“No,” Derek says, “but you’re on probation.” 

The kisses last longer and longer, and Stiles arranges Derek’s arms around him before he throws the quilt over them both, along with a cautionary “mind the groin”. Heavy, warm fabric falls over Derek’s head, robbing him of his sight and swaddling them both in their own cave of intimacy. To keep his weight off Stiles’s sore areas proves difficult, so they roll over. 

“Ready to make some new memories in this room?” Stiles makes himself comfortable on top of him, hips supported by Derek’s hands, ”I think I feel my junk recovering.” 

That’s when Stiles’s head meets a projectile that smacks his forehead into the ridge of Derek’s nose. Stiles throws off the quilt and catches the red volleyball before it rolls down to the floor. 

He raises it threateningly. 

”Shit.” Erica ducks behind the stairs. “I was aiming for Derek!” 

Stiles knees Derek in the stomach in effort to get off the bed. “Oh, it’s on, Reyes. Derek, you’re with me!” 

“Coming.” Derek remains still for a moment, gazing up towards the ceiling and trying not to smile. He loses that fight. 


End file.
